Bud Gendall stared at the bank of security monitors that all displayed the same message: “VIDEO SOURCE DISCONNECTED.”
“What the hell just happened to our feed?”
John McCall, his night shift partner, looked at him and shrugged. “Looks like the system just rebooted. Gotta love Microsoft.”
Then the lights went out.
“Shit! Power’s down too?”
“Can’t be. The computer’s coming back up now.”
Sure enough, the security and computer monitors still wept their pale light into the encroaching darkness. Weird. Bud didn’t like weirdness. Not in the NSA’s most secret supermax facility. Not on his shift.
Grabbing the heavy black flashlight from its wall mount, John switched it on and headed toward the door. “I’ll check it out.”
As John stepped into the corridor, a loud crack accompanied his scream. A rush of adrenaline coursed through Bud’s body like an electric shock, throwing the unfolding scene into slow motion. The flashlight spinning out of John’s hand. The whirling flashlight strobing the action into a sequence of freeze-frame images. The McFarland girl’s cold, hard face, eyes gone white. John’s right arm flopping like a rag doll’s. McFarland catapulting John’s 240 pounds of muscle toward him like a human cannonball.
Bud was halfway to his feet, hand tugging the Beretta from his service holster, when John hit him. Rolling with the blow, Bud came back to his feet with a grace that spoke to his years of training. Even as he sought to level the gun, the girl’s axe kick knocked it from his hand, the force of the blow numbing his arm from the shoulder down.
Bud responded with a leg sweep that should have landed her flat on her back, but she countered, using his own momentum against him, her elbow smashing his left orbital socket, wiping his vision with a red haze of blood and pain. As the floor rose up to meet him, her knee interrupted his downward progress, the impact crushing his trachea and rupturing several branches of his inferior thyroid artery.
As Bud felt blackness enfold him, he realized the unthinkable. This slender young woman in her blue hospital gown had just taken him and John out. As easy as putting out the trash.
A quick pulse check confirmed what Heather’s visions had already told her. She was this room’s sole survivor. Shunting aside a wave of revulsion, Heather let her training propel her forward.
Moving quickly, Heather retrieved both guards’ duty belts, holsters, and pistols, closed the door, and slid into the chair recently occupied by the second guard. As she used the back door to bypass the log-in screen, Heather heard the wail of an alarm, accompanied by distant shouts and the muffled thumps of gunfire.
It took her twenty seconds to bring the camera controller back online and another eighteen to take root control of that system. Overriding the default settings, Heather rerouted all camera output to her station, displaying the live video in a grid of small windows spread across the security monitors. A quick glance told her what she needed to know.
Heather pulled up a three-dimensional facility diagram, then three additional windows on the primary computer display, rerouting all facility controls to her terminal. Noting Mark’s and Jennifer’s locations, she engaged every other lock in the building, restored the lights, and initiated the central control center’s fire suppression system, flooding the locked room with halon 1301. Apparently the NSA was exempt from the EPA global warming ban on halon fire suppression systems. Not that it mattered to Heather which fire suppression gas they used. Fire wasn’t the only thing it would suffocate. She couldn’t have someone trying to restore central system control while she had work to do.
On a different sublevel, two dozen Arabic prisoners had stormed from their cells, killing three guards, but losing five of their own in the process. Now armed with pistols, nightsticks, and flashlights, the survivors were systematically working their way down the corridor.
Ground-floor cameras showed that the facility rapid response force, deprived of video intelligence, had broken up into three teams of five that moved to secure the elevator shaft and stairwells.
With a deep breath, Heather shifted her attention to Mark and Jennifer. They were being held on the third sublevel, just like Heather, but in separate wings. As they’d planned, both twins had remained in their cells, awaiting Heather’s contact. Now that she had a chance to devote the required level of concentration, Heather opened her mind to Mark and Jen.
“Ahh. There you are.” She felt Mark’s relief wash through her.
“You ready to move?”
“Just been waiting on you.”
“Jen?”
“She’s out of it again. I’m gonna have to go get her. You got a layout for me?”
Heather pulled forth the memory of the 3-D facility diagram.
“That’ll work.”
“I’ll unlock the doors along your route as you get to them, then lock them again behind you. Get moving.”
Heather dropped the link, refocusing her attention on the monitor showing Mark leaving his cell, then entering another camera’s field of view as he raced down the corridor.
Movement on the first monitor attracted her attention. One security squad had entered the elevator, headed down to her level. She stopped it between the first and second sublevels, killing all power to the elevator shaft, simultaneously sealing all doors shut. It wouldn’t keep a determined team from climbing down and forcing the doors open, but it would slow them down. Reconsidering her action, Heather restored power and the elevator’s downward motion, injecting a slight error into the elevator controls. Instead of stopping on sublevel three, it continued its descent to sublevel four.
As the doors opened, the security team suddenly found itself engaged in an all-out Al Qaeda firefight.
Jack listened to the military police alert go out, paused just a moment to confirm the location, and then reached for the remote device controller. Something big was going down at the top-secret NSA detention facility code-named the Ice House. Initial reports indicated a group of high-level Al Qaeda detainees had initiated an escape attempt, resulting in a call for all units to converge on the facility.
Well, if they thought this was Al Qaeda–initiated, Jack was happy to help support that theory. Checking the radio signal strength to each of the five remote devices, Jack flicked the first switch to the ARM position, waited for the green light, pressed the DETONATE button, and waited. The blast wave arrived seventeen seconds later, strong enough to rattle the windows. Now the MPs were going to have to get organized without any radio communications.
Flipping the second switch to ARM, Jack repeated the procedure and was once again rewarded with the delayed blast wave. So much for the main telephone trunk lines off base too.
The image of Janet slipped, unbidden, through his mind, little Robby perched on one hip as she stood beneath the jungle hut’s thatched overhanging roof, waving at him as he’d turned for one last long look at her. He missed his lover. He missed his partner.
Getting up from his chair, Jack walked to the sink and started a fresh pot of coffee brewing. The next three blasts needed a delay for maximum effect. One cup of java ought to just about do it.